Lysandra was amazed to see that the sponsor had even gone to the expense of providing musicians. Flute girls wound their way through the tables and though their tunes were rarely in harmony, the shrill discord somehow seemed to suit the revels. Much thought had also gone into security. Each school had a clearly marked area to keep any over-eager or over-liquored competitors from settling their arranged disputes before the day of competition. Though segregated, the male gladiators were also present, a fact that delighted Penelope.
The Hellene women had found a free table and had gathered together as was now their custom.
‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused, chewing on a chicken leg. ‘It’s been my bleeding time for days. I’m going to get some action tonight if it kills me. No risk fun.’
‘It might kill you,’ Danae commented. ‘You know it’s forbidden.’
The Athenian wrinkled her nose as she bit into a stuffed dormouse, which, they had been told by one of the Italian girls, was a popular Roman delicacy.
‘I don’t care.’ Penelope shrugged. ‘Just because most of you are happy with a licking, doesn’t mean it’s satisfying me. You’ve been snacking for months. I want the whole meal — meat and vegeta-bles.’ The women fell about laughing and Lysandra found that this last comment brought a slight smile to her face.
‘More wine?’ Thebe reached for a carafe. Lysandra’s hand snaked out, and slapped her away. Thebe flushed angrily.
‘Do not be foolish, Thebe,’ Lysandra admonished.
The Corinthian gestured to Eirianwen and her coterie, who were indulging in the foul-tasting beer that they craved. ‘They’re drinking and we should too.’
‘They are barbarians!’ Lysandra snapped haughtily. ‘ We are Hellene. It is enough to take wine in small quantities, with water, especially tonight. I would not see you with a sword in your guts because your head was heavy with wine.’ She felt slightly hypo-critical saying this, as it was well known that she had been carried insensible from the gathering at the ludus. None saw fit to bring that up, however.
At the end of their repast, Lysandra excused herself and made her way to Eirianwen’s table. She nodded at Sorina, who regarded her coldly as she sat. For her part, Eirianwen’s eyes were somewhat glazed from imbibing her vile liquor.
‘Lysandra.’ She grinned. ‘It is good to see you!’ Her enthusiastic embrace caused Lysandra to stiffen a little. She was unused to affection and the barbarian habit of constantly touching one another was unsettling.
‘I came to wish you luck.’ Lysandra’s eyes swept around the table. ‘All of you.’
Sorina took her cup away from her lips. ‘We don’t need it,’ she said shortly. ‘We are not novices like you and your friends.’
That was typical of barbarians. Sorina could not be held accountable for her rudeness, she knew no better.
‘Thank you, Lysandra.’ This was from the Illyrian dimachaera, Teuta. She raised her foaming cup in a toast.
‘You are all drinking,’ Lysandra noted the obvious.
‘Of course, do you want some beer?’ Eirianwen smacked her lips. ‘It’s Egyptian, the best.’
‘No, thank you. I do not think it is wise to drink heavily before a combat.’
‘Ha!’ Sorina ejaculated. ‘This from the veteran of one combat and the model of sobriety. Forgive me for not bowing to your great experience.’
‘Have I done something to offend you, Amazon?’ Lysandra asked carefully. She would not cause another brawl between them.
‘You don’t matter enough to have offended me, girl,’ Sorina sneered. ‘You and those others,’ she gestured to the Hellene women,
‘are just fodder for the arena. It’s a rare novice that lasts. And you don’t have what it takes.’
‘You’re drunk.’ Lysandra’s own voice was harsh. ‘But there is no need to insult me.’
‘Of course I’m drunk. To be drunk before battle is to honour one’s gods. You should know that, being a priestess and all.’
‘We do not honour Athene by falling around in a stupor. It is foolish to fight with a thick head.’
‘You trust your goddess, yes?’ Sorina placed her cup on the table between them.
‘Naturally.’
‘Then if you are marked to die it will make no difference if you are drunk or sober, will it? For a priestess, you have remarkably little faith.’
Lysandra stood, her frame rigid. ‘I came to wish you well, but I will not play the whipping girl to a drunken old hag who swims in liquor and past glories.’ She stalked away before Sorina could respond. She breathed out, forcing the anger from her body. Suddenly, she had a headache, and decided to retire for the night.
The cell of course was empty, the other women making the most of the freedom the revels offered. She removed her sandals and sat on her bunk, pulling her knees up to her chin, her thoughts turning inevitably to the morrow and what it might bring. She did not fear the coming of daylight. Rather she felt a keen sense of anticipation. The Athenian priest had been right when he had challenged her. A lifetime of training served no purpose unless that training was tested. What use was the sharpest sword if it were left in its scabbard? How could one truly know the mettle of the blade save for matching it against another? That she would defeat her enemy was undoubted and all would know that it was a Spartan who was victrix. The thought warmed her and she smiled slightly to herself.
The cell door opened, causing Lysandra to start from her reverie.
She turned sharply to see Eirianwen silhouetted in the half-light.
She was holding a carafe idly in her hand, her face turned away as she addressed the guard. A few words were heard exchanged with the unmistakable clink of coin changing hands. Eirianwen moved into the cell, shutting the door behind her.
‘I brought you some wine,’ she said simply. Without waiting for an invitation, she made her way to the bunk and sat opposite Lysandra.
Lysandra felt her mouth go dry and butterflies flitted insanely deep inside her. Her hands suddenly became cold and damp, her heart beating a little faster. ‘I am not drinking tonight,’ she said, embarrassed at her feelings.
‘Nonsense!’ Eirianwen handed her the carafe. ‘I have mixed it three parts water, one part wine as you Greeks like it.’
Lysandra smiled at her, finding it easy to forgive her Latin usage. Normally, being referred to as Greek was offensive to her but, from Eirianwen’s lips, it was not so. ‘Well,’ she said, shrugging, ‘why not?’ She felt the tribeswoman’s eyes upon her as she drank and found she could not meet her gaze.
‘You mustn’t mind Sorina,’ Eirianwen said softly. ‘She is spiteful when in her cups. I came to apologise for her. Lysandra, you may think of us as barbarians but we too have our rules of…’ she looked up to the ceiling, gesturing.
‘Etiquette,’ Lysandra finished for her.
‘Yes!’ Eirianwen snapped her fingers. ‘Etiquette. Sorina was rude, but she is drunk. She will regret her words in the morning.’
Lysandra passed her the wine. ‘ In vino veritas, Eirianwen. She holds a dislike for me.’
‘She dislikes all Greeks and Romans… No,’ she shook her head, ‘she dislikes what Greeks and Romans represent. Civilisation, the Law of Man, straight roads and philosophers’ words. All this is against the Earth Mother. It is unnatural and it is wrong to go against the way of the goddess.’
‘I am a Priestess of Athene,’ Lysandra noted. She kept her tone gentle, and was surprised to find she was not affronted by Eirianwen’s theology.
‘ Ath-e-ne,’ Eirianwen repeated the unfamiliar word. ‘That is so Greek.’ She laughed somewhat tipsily. ‘It is the civilised way to put everything in a box. Ath… ene is only an aspect of the Great Mother. As is your Juno, Venus and all those others.’ She used the Roman names for the goddesses, but, Lysandra realised, they were all she would have heard.
‘It is not the night for theological discourse,’ Lysandra said after a moment’s thought. Eirianwen’s views were somewhat offensive and patently incorrect. She was, however, unwilling to put this to voice. She cast her eyes down and her gaze fell upon the Silurian’s feet. They were small, much more so than her own, and exquisitely beautiful. She swallowed. ‘We should focus on tomorrow and the trials it will bring.’ Eirianwen shuffled a little closer to her on the cot. She leant towards the Spartan, so that their faces almost touched.